reach for hands that aren’t there
reach for hands that aren’t there
Even after the whole private-declaration-of-love thing, Brittany still wouldn’t sleep with her.
This was, like, a record for them. They’d been friends for ten years, and friends-with-orgasms for, like, half of that. It hadn’t taken much for Santana to apply what the middle-school boys tried with her in the back of the gym during the school dance to Brittany, and bam, sold. Girl orgasms rocked. They’d had a fight, once, in ninth grade when Santana had cut her hair without talking to Brittany about it first. It wasn’t her fault–Santana’s mom basically made the whole family get their hair cut and then get a family picture taken. But for ten days, they didn’t talk, until Santana made it up to Brittany with a new collar for Lord Tubbington.
But with all the dramz of the year behind them, back to holding pinkies in the hallway sometimes and smiling at each other again, Brittany wouldn’t let it get to anything more serious. Or anything more fun, for that matter. Which left Santana alone in her bedroom on a Thursday night, showered from putting her time in at the gym and bored out of her skull.
It just wasn’t interesting to date boys anymore. If her, like, self-revelation or whatever wasn’t enough to make boys the least appealing option in a sea of mediocrity, the couple of fake dates she’d been on with Dave to keep up appearances would have done it. The boy had two settings: either loud and obnoxious about football and hockey, or whiny and hushed about his feelings and life and whatever. It’s like once she called him on his boy-lovin’ self she’d also become his confessor. Even though she didn’t sign on for that shit, she let him run with it because it was kind of sad and Santana had a small quota of pity she used up for him.
So if she was dating a gay dude, that meant she wasn’t getting any play; and if she wasn’t banging other dudes on the side, she wasn’t getting any play; and the only female she’d ever let close to her fine self was Brittany, who wouldn’t give her any play either. It was a dry spell. Santana hadn’t had a dry spell since that dance in middle school; it was pretty fucked up.
She blew out a sigh and stretched out on her bed, wishing Brittany was there. It wasn’t like she wanted to go out and start banging chicks, either, though she would totally rock that if she wanted to. Part of her was kind of interested, in that I-wonder-what-it’s-like way, but mostly it was just weird and kind of off-putting. She didn’t want to sleep with some ancient lesbian wearing plaid. She wanted–well. She wanted Brittany. She just wanted to fuck Brittany again, she didn’t want to fuck anyone else.
Letting out a frustrated groan, she turned over and tucked her pillow against her body. If Brittany were here, they’d already have made out for an hour, all the strawberry lip gloss gone from Britt’s lips and her mouth red and wet from it. She always looked so good like that, right after they made out, her skin all flushed and hot to the touch. One of the things Santana loved best about Brittany was how she threw herself into everything she did, whether it was her stupid web show or fucking.
When they were fucking, Britt would arch and moan like it was her fucking job, tensing and pushing against Santa’s hand or her mouth with everything in her body. And her body was tight, too, a dancer’s frame with a cheerleader’s build. Santana loved to look at her, the definition of her arms, the flat plane of her stomach. Seriously, Santana would have gone gay for that if she hadn’t been built for it anyway.
And at the end of the day, Santana was cool with being a lebso. Whatever, when she went to college she was gonna hit all of that like gangbusters. The girls wouldn’t know what him ‘em. But she wasn’t going to waste six years of social capital on outing herself. She wasn’t stupid. Glee was different–football players were in glee, her mom liked that she did it, and it looked good on her college application compared to all the cheerleading shit. Coming out was like eight billion degrees beyond that on that anti-cool meter; she wasn’t going to let some bitchy second-tier Cheerios wannabe throw a slushie in her face for liking pussy. Fuck that–Santana controlled her destiny, her sexuality didn’t.
That whole train of thought almost killed her girl-boner, but Santana huffed it out and started thinking of Brittany’s mouth again, wet from eating Santana out on her bed. Britt loved that just as much as getting off herself–she’d make all these noises like eating Santana out was the best part of her day. Maybe it was.
Pushing her hand into her boyshorts, she was already slick beneath her fingers, clit swollen and hard to the touch. Santana always got off easy for Brittany, whether she was there or not. It had never been that way with anyone else–she’d always had to work for it, or train the boy to work her to it. But fucking Brittany, or thinking about fucking Brittany, always hit her hard and hit her strong.
Santana rolled her clit between her fingers, twitching and shuddering at the stimulation. She breathed hard into her pillow, closing her eyes and imagining it was Britt’s hand and not her own. If Britt were here, she’d be saying something like, “Come on, Santana, I wanna see you like this, I wanna feel you come on my hand,” and other dirty shit she never seemed to realize was dirty. Santana bit at her own lip, working to muffle the noises she wanted to make; her family was all downstairs watching television, but she’d said she had homework and came up here to stare at the ceiling instead.
Britt bending and moving when she danced; Britt’s mouth open wide in a moan; Britt with Santana’s fingers in her mouth, tasting herself and her orgasm there. Santana let out a choked sound and came hard, pussy clenching around nothing as she worked her clit through it.
When she came down and her breath evened out, the weak part of her wanted to cry. She had to be for real about this–she wasn’t going to get what she wanted either way, and no memory of what she and Britt had been together was gonna cut it. Santana wasn’t going to lose everything she’d worked towards, and Britt wasn’t going to change her mind. For Santana, there was too much at stake–slushies, yeah, and being less popular than Jewfro–but mostly, she didn’t want to disappoint her mami y papi. She had a year left to go at McKinley, and then she could do whatever she wanted. Be whoever she wanted. But Britt wanted her that way now, and Santana just wanted Britt back the way it used to be.
Santana eyed the phone, but didn’t pick it up. There wasn’t anything more she could say, if “I love you” didn’t cover it.